


Call to You

by Bixby Flood (Audrey_T)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6795691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audrey_T/pseuds/Bixby%20Flood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He should be saved, you think. Not from the monsters or the demons or even heaven's twisted angels, but from himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call to You

There's something about Dean Winchester that just twists and turns your stomach to knots. Something in his furrowed brow, the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands clench and unclench around that blade and his fingernails bite into his palms. Dean Winchester is just wound so tight, understandably, and there's something in the depths of his eyes that calls to you.  
  
 _He should be saved_ , you think. Not from the monsters or the demons or even heaven's twisted angels, but from himself. No one's motives are more pure than Dean's and, still, no one's thoughts more dark. But who are you to save a Winchester from anything? You're just a girl, this pathetic little _thing_ , in a world where people like you are so very dispensable.  
  
Dean's already pushing you away, and why shouldn't he be? Everyone he loves or bothers to care about ends up dead or seriously hurting - even Sam with his demon's blood and the angel with his grace. Who can fight the bad mojo that seeps out from within his pores? The dark cloud that hangs so saturated and dripping above his head? Who can withstand the virulent, toxic, nauseating stink of death and despair that surrounds him? You think you could do it? You think you could try?  
  
But you have to know there's no trying with Dean. He's bent and broken and suffering a slow bleed from old sores that just can't heal. He's determined to die in this war, in any war, because he knows he deserves it and thinks it's the only way to redemption...to salvation...if there's any of either left in this rotten, shitty heap of a universe. His belief in that is mostly petulant and childish but it's one of the few things he wholeheartedly believes in. Maybe that and Cas. Cas-tea-el.  
  
Still. There's just something about Dean Winchester you can't get over.  
  
You can see that every fight, every trial, every new turn and gut-churning, soul-wrenching nasty surprise that pops up on this hell-bent journey is taking chunks out of him. _Oh_ , there goes the crinkles at the corner of his eyes. And here he's dropped half his smile. He's left his trust in Purgatory. His faith was lost when he found Sam living a life without him. At Caine's, he's traded his body's hunger for a new kind. Even Baby's lost her glow. Even _pie_ has lost its sweetness. Food tastes like ashes in his mouth.  
  
Sometimes you think, _That boy just needs a good hug. A little lovin'. Someone to care for him._ Maybe you want to be that someone. Maybe you want to be the fierce woman who mothers the fire-breathing dragon. Sorry; Dean is not a monster. Or maybe he is. Maybe Dean's the monster who kills monsters. Or maybe that's not true...yet. But is it only a matter of time? The Mark of Caine seeps deeper every day. You've noticed that unusual glint in his eyes. The way he looks at Sam. How he keeps clenching and unclenching his fists. _You're not even holding the blade, Dean!_  
  
Maybe you think you can kiss it all away? Even after everything, after all you've witnessed and been a part of, you're still just a silly little girl who believes in princes and magical kisses of true loves. Do you think you're Dean's true love? Do you think it could possibly matter? Maybe Metatron wrote that in? Maybe deep down he's just a romantic with a soft spot for stubborn boys who won't give up? Probably not. Probably, it wouldn't make such an interesting story. Happy endings hardly ever do. Heroes don't always win. Even cracked and dented, fucked up heroes who cause more damage than they fix. Not even a Winchester. Especially not a Winchester.  
  
But you should get that boy while you can. The world is always ending, always giving up on itself, and who knows when you'll ever get the chance again. Maybe you can't fix him, but maybe you can make it just a little better. Just for a little while. And doesn't that count for something? And even if it doesn't, what's the harm, right? A little heartache and a lot of fun before you die? Or he dies? Or a demon or an angel (at this point, what's it matter which?) jumps into you and burns through your body in a nanosecond? Either way you're doomed. What's the sense in holding back now?  
  
And that's how you find yourself here, standing at Dean's door, poised to knock or let yourself in, depending on whether or not he locks his door in this closed up bunker. _Knock, knock._ You turn the door. It opens. _Silly Dean. Don't you know there be monsters?_  
  
He's sitting on the bed, head in his hands, shoes across the floor. Bleeding. Crying, maybe. Does it ever stop with this boy? This beautiful, heart-heavy boy. How many times will he break his own heart? How many times will you let him break yours? _It's infinite_ , you think. _Infinity on both._  
  
"Dean?" What's the question? _Dean, are you okay? Dean, can I come in? Dean, will you let me in?_ Do you even know why you're here?  
  
He doesn't turn to you. He doesn't say your name. His fingers run through his hair. He clears his throat. He moves to sit a little straighter and then...he doesn't. He can't. Dean, this Dean weighed down with saving the world (and everyone in it), can't sit up any straighter than this. His back is permanently bowed.  
  
He shudders. Visibly. His body racks. This is terrifying. You know he is broken, but watching Dean Winchester splinter in front of you...there's such a wrongness to that.  
  
When the earth bottoms out beneath you, what do you do? This is Dean, bottoming out. Make a choice.  
  
He must be calling to you; you think this because you are weak. What else can a shaking body mean, if not a cry for help? You go to him, of course. You stand before him, and then you kneel. You sit on your knees in front of this imperfect human and look up at him as if in prayer. _You're no saint_ , you think, _but, probably, you have answered many-a prayer._  
  
"Dean?" you ask again, your hands folded neatly in your lap. Contrite. Your head is bowed. It rests against his knee. His body, an altar. You were to be brave. You're failing him. Ask for forgiveness. " _Please._ "  
  
It takes a moment. Then his hand is in your hair. His fingers touch your cheek. Then your chin. Patient, blade-wielding, gun-roughened hands lift your face. You bring your eyes to his. Are they crying too? The moisture on your face is too warm. His thumb catches it; wipes it away. Now he says your name.  
  
It hurts.  
  
You rise, still on your knees, but taller. Your face presses against his. There's wicked stubble there that scratches you. Penance. You press harder.  
  
He cradles your head in his hands. He could crush you. He could kill you. His eyes _are_ killing you. Thousands of peace-bringing little deaths.  
  
His lips touch yours. Chapped. When they move lightly, they cut. They move harder, they bruise. His mouth is so warm against yours. When he opens, so soft, so wet.  
  
Your legs find you standing, bending, still attached. He touches your waist. Hands smooth over your bare stomach. Lips follow. Nails drift down your side. Fingers open buttons, undoes zips, rids you of all the extra fabric and unwanted barriers that separates you from this saving grace.  
  
This bed is tough, the blankets prick at your skin, but his body over yours is incomparable. You could get such good sleep under this body. You could be so safe if you stayed _right here_.  
  
Thumbs press at the flesh just inside your knees. You're already so open but he needs more. You can give him more.  
  
Your fingers grip his hair and he slips lower. Lips skim past your collarbone, your chest, your navel as your stomach hollows out. His mouth bites and nibbles and sucks. His fingers grip and pull and press you closer. He hurts and soothes in equal parts. This Dean, he does such wonderful things.  
  
 _Am I the altar?_ you wonder. _What is the prayer?_ you ask. There's nothing to forgive. This is Dean. This is perfection. Angels pray to _you_. Such a silly boy. You pull him up by the ears. _Do not pray to false idols._ Your tongue traces his. _Bow before no man._ Your hand feels for him, hardened. His prayer falls against your throat, just shy of your ears. _Good_ , you think. _Prayers are only heard by gods and saints. By angels. By Cas. Cas-tea-el. Not sinners. Not me. Still, I can have this._  
  
He presses into you.  
  
It hurts.  
  
It hurts everywhere, as far as the tips of your fingers to the very edge of your soul. Behind your eyelids ache. He presses closer. Your thighs cramp. Closer still, your gut turns.  
  
It shouldn't be this way. But this is Dean and nothing is easy.  
  
"Dean." You hold him to your chest. His mouth slants over yours. He breathes life into you. Of course he does. All he ever does is give life.  
  
Too soon, he's rushed. He slams into you and it stings. He does it again, and again, and...maybe it's not too soon. His teeth tear into your shoulder. Your back arches. Your body stiffens. Your throat's so exposed.  
  
Light bursts behind screwed shut eyes.  
  
This is Dean, spent.  
  
His body lays heavy over yours. Is there such a place as safe as this?  
  
He rolls over. His arm covers his eyes and he calms his breathing. He whispers your name like, _Hello, Regret._  
  
There's just something about Dean Winchester that turns and twists your stomach to knots. Something in his furrowed brow and woeful smile. The way his hands clench and unclench, even when there's no blade to be held there. He's just wound so tight. There's something in the depths of his eyes that keeps calling...  
  
Sometimes you wonder, could he be calling to you?


End file.
